


Growing Pains

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Batdad, Gen, I love the idea of Bruce introducing Jason to some of the classics, Injury, and Jason growing up addicted to quality literature, bonding through literature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 04:26:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10689717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: "Haven't you read a book you enjoyed, Jason?"





	Growing Pains

_[Before]_  
  
Jason had a habit of disappearing after dinner. It was his first few weeks in his new home, and it was  _huge_. So huge, in fact, he hadn’t had a chance to explore most of the rooms.   
  
So every night, he’d thank Alfred enthusiastically for whatever monstrous portion he’d inhaled and ask for Bruce’s permission to excuse himself. Then Bruce, hiding a smile, would tell him to go ahead.  
  
It would be an hour or two before he was seen again, sometimes emerging dust-covered and grinning, other times a little more sombre, catching the mood of the largely abandoned house. Once he’d had to sheepishly apologise and let Alfred tend his bruises when he had tripped into a bookshelf, and tome after heavy tome had rained down on him. Another night he’d dozed off in a crawlspace, and had awoken to Alfred tickling the sole of his bare foot, saying, “Come along, young sir.”  
  
Part of the fun of exploring was that Alfred always seemed to know exactly where to find him. It became a sort of game for Jason, trying to find rooms where Alfred wouldn’t think to look.   
He’d even spent a whole evening crammed into a cabinet, just to see if it would give the old man pause. (He had, of course, taken two steps into the room and said, “Why Master Jay, do you intend on gracing us with your presence tonight at supper? Or perhaps you have found the magical land of Narnia in there?” Jason had tumbled out of the cabinet, indignant, and trailed down the stairs behind him with a scowl on his face.)  
  
So occupied was Jason with his habit of exploring that it had never occurred to him to wonder what Batm–  _what Bruce_  did, when he wasn’t being awesome and kicking criminal butt.   
  
Naturally, it took him completely by surprise when he entered what he assumed was an empty room (empty of people, that is– Jason knew it was full of books. They had a library  _inside the house_ , but Jason supposed it made sense, because Gotham Public Library was pretty far away from the Manor and Bruce did have a lot of money), only to find Bruce,  _reading_  of all things.   
  
Jason had skittered to a halt, wide eyed, said, “Here you are!”, his voice going high and childlike like it sometimes did when he wasn’t especially paying attention.  
  
Bruce had set his book in his lap, finger-marking the page, and smiled. “Here I am,” he agreed.  
  
“Is this–” He stopped, rethinking the question. “This is what you do at night?”  
  
“At night I dress up like a Bat and fight criminals,” Bruce said mildly.  
  
Jason had huffed and crossed his arms, annoyed, as always, at Bruce’s consistent attempts to refine his vocabulary. “Is this what you do in the  _evening_ , then.”  
  
“Sometimes,” Bruce smiled again. “Most evenings, if I have the time.”  
  
Jason had crept closer, closer to the pool of light where Bruce sat in a comfortable-looking chair. “Why?” he asked curiously, as the light reached his face. For a moment he imagined it to be warm against his skin, like the too-rare Gotham sunlight. But then the feeling was gone, and it left behind an absence of warmth.   
  
It was replaced by Bruce’s hand descending, heavy and gentle, coming to rest on his head. He asked, “Haven’t you read a book you enjoyed, Jason?”  
  
Jason screwed up his face, which was answer enough.   
  
It wasn’t that he couldn’t read. Not at all. Just that he was usually– well, there were always more important things to do. Reading was for people who didn’t have to worry about where the next meal was coming from, which is why Jay’s mom had stopped reading to him after his dad had died. Reading was… not for people like him.   
  
Bruce  _hmm_ ’d low, skimmed his fingers through Jason’s hair. “Well okay, champ,” he said. “If you could go to the fifth bookcase on the left-hand wall, third shelf down. There is a pale green book, hardcover. Bring it back, please.”  
  
Jason ducked out from under his hand and vanished into the shadows of the library. He had returned moments later, holding the book carefully. “This one, Boss?”  
  
“Thank you, Jason.” Bruce accepted the book from his outstretched hand and settled back into the chair, opening  _Treasure Island_.   
  
“No problemo,” Jay had said, turning on his heel and starting out of the room.  
  
When Bruce spoke, Jason had stopped, thinking the man was addressing him– “Squire Trelawney, Doctor Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end,” –but Bruce didn’t look at him, and the low, melodic voice continued quietly, mesmerising– “keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17— and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow Inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre-cut, first took up his lodging under our roof.”  
  
When the man had paused for breath, Jason asked, “What are you–?”  
  
“Just reading, Jason,” he answered absently. Then, “Don’t let me keep you.”  
  
But Jason had stayed as the man continued reading to himself, had crept closer to the light and further from the door. Eventually, seeing how Bruce seemed oblivious to his presence, he had sat down just outside the circle of lamp-light. All of him, sans his socked-toes, sat in shadow.  
  
And Bruce had continued to read aloud, apparently unaware of his enraptured audience.   
  
–  
  
It became a sort of habit, after that. Every second night or so, Jason would still vanish after dinner, but only long enough for Bruce to settle comfortably in the library. He’d wait outside the door awhile before he’d creep in, feet silent on the old floor (he had found all the creaks when Bruce was at work, so knew where to avoid), and would find Bruce reading aloud.  
  
And if Jason had ever noticed that he never seemed to miss anything, or spot a second book resting between the chair-cushion and the arm, he never mentioned it. But then, Bruce never mentioned his presence, just close enough to hear comfortably, far enough away to still be in darkness.   
  
As the days got colder, however, the boy eased closer to Bruce’s chair, to the lit-fireplace. A little at a time, a step or two closer each night. And still, Bruce never mentioned it. Not even when they finished  _Treasure Island_  and started on  _The Chronicles of Narnia_ , or when Jason started to sit close enough to lean against the arm of the chair, head resting against Bruce’s slackened hand.   
  
The nights Jason didn’t attend got rarer, until they stopped entirely. He was a good audience; would gasp or laugh or jump in all the right places, and Bruce would carefully hide his smile at the boy’s transparency.   
  
It got to the point where Jason would beat Bruce to the library. The man would find him sitting cross-legged, eyes hopeful but downcast, their current book resting on the chair. In these moments, where Bruce would step over him silently, one hand skimming through his hair, where he’d sit quietly for a bit before he’d start to read in his melodic voice, painting pictures of adventures Jason had never imagined… these moments, more than Jason’s bedroom, more than Alfred’s cooking or the Cave, or the feeling of walking through the school gates and finding someone waiting for him  _every single time_ … well, these moments were _home_.   
  
The rare nights Bruce was too busy to read, however, saw Jason scowling in front of the TV and bothering Alfred for something to do, pouting and lethargic by turns.   
  
One afternoon, straight from school, Jason had found himself entering Bruce’s study without knocking. He walked over to the desk, set  _The Hobbit_  in his da–  _Bruce’s_  hand, and sat hopefully on the floor beside the chair– heart hammering, because he didn’t want to get sent away.  
  
Bruce ruffled his hair, said, “I believe we can work out the details at a later date, gentleman. Thank you all for your time.” Cutting off the sound of someone protesting, Bruce had ended some WE conference call.   
  
Then, smile on his face, Bruce took out the small red bookmark and picked up where they had left off the night before.   
  
Jason had closed his eyes, the world narrowing until it was Bruce’s voice, him, and a large, warm hand brushing through his hair again and again.   
  
—  
  
_[Now]_  
  
Jason stirs, blinking blearily up at the ceiling of the Batcave. He’s in pain, but it’s distant. Drugged.  
  
Sluggish but determined, he first wriggles his fingers, is sure he feels movement. The IV in his arm prickles uncomfortably at his skin when his muscles shift, which he takes as a good sign. He tries his toes next, feels a thrill of relief when he feels the blanket twitch.   
  
He’s fucking exhausted. He thought he’d die tonight, had been bleeding out on that city street corner. But now–  
  
“Don’t try to move just yet.”  
  
Bruce. There’s a heart monitor beeping up somewhere above him, where Bruce’s voice is coming from.  
  
His eyes slide shut in something like gratitude. Whatever else has happened between them, Jason knows he’s safe here.   
  
“You’re going to be fine, Jason.” Quiet, an undertone of emotion Jason can’t quite identify in this state. “But you lost a lot of blood. You need some time to heal, so you should rest up.”  
  
He hears the man walk away, squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He’d heard Batman approach, had blood running down his shirt, so much it saturated the pants on his thighs, had thought _too late again, old man_ , but not really, because it was  _dad, you came for me_  (and he tells himself it’s for the best Bruce can’t even bear to sit with him, because apparently the drugs make him a sappy asshole, and he’d rather be dead than say that shit aloud).  
  
He feels, faintly, like the cave is spinning, like his gurney is spiralling away someplace out of control. If he could move he would probably hold on to the edge of the cot, but he settles for clenching his hand against the sheets. He thinks the pain might be worse now, but judging from the floaty feeling around his skull, he’s probably maxed out on painkillers. But then, that could be the blood-loss.   
  
He hates being back in the Cave, where he’s unwanted and unwelcome. He wishes, childishly,  _stupidly_ , immature and weak– that this was still his home. That everything was okay. He wonders how Dick feels, when he comes home– even the pretender. Because he doesn’t think it would feel like this.  
  
His eyes are still shut, his head fuzzy, which is why he doesn’t notice Bruce has returned until he feels a too-big, warm hand rest gently on his head. Skim lightly through his hair.  
  
Too soon the touch is gone, but he feels a hand settle over his, hears the creak of a chair as Bruce sits down.   
  
He is silent a moment before he begins, “It was a trial to my feelings, on the next day but one, to see Joe arraying himself in his Sunday clothes to accompany me to Miss Havisham’s.”  
  
Jason sucks in air through his oxygen mask, opening his eyes blearily, because  _there’s no way_ –  
  
The book has a line of dust gathered in the spine, a little in the edges of the embossed letters on the cover  _(GREAT EXPECTATIONS– Charles Dickens_ ), but aside from that, looks  _exactly the same_ , untouched, right down to the little red bookmark Bruce had always used. And that– can’t be right, he can remember Bruce telling him it was one of his favourites, that he had reread it every year, but he… he had  _stopped_ , had left it at page 91, the last part he’d read to Jason before–  
  
 "However,“ Bruce continues, soft, steady, "as he thought his court suit necessary to the occasion, it was not for me to tell him that he looked far better in his working dress…”   
  
And Jason starts to cry.  
  
He turns his head away from Bruce, as far as he can, silent tears soaking into the pillowcase and trickling over his oxygen mask. His nose is running, and there’s a pain in his chest that has nothing to do with his injuries. It feels… familiar, makes him feel so light and so heavy at the same time, making it hard to breathe.  
  
Bruce’s thumb runs over his knuckles again and again, soothing, the only indication he’s noticed Jason’s tears. His voice doesn’t falter or slow.  
  
Jason closes his eyes, tears still falling. Then there’s nothing, except–  
  
Bruce’s warm hand over his, the man’s voice, and the story Jason’s been waiting years to hear.  
  
“At breakfast time my sister declared her intention of going to town with us, and being left at Uncle Pumblechook’s, and called for ‘when we had done with our fine ladies'– a way of putting the case, from which Joe appeared inclined to augur the worst. The forge was shut up for the day…”  
  
To Jason, it sounds a lot like home.  
  
  
**-THE END-**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/18361908822/growing-pains)


End file.
